


half-baked

by copperiisulfate



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperiisulfate/pseuds/copperiisulfate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikoto knows that he should probably listen to Kusanagi. He knows in his heart of hearts, on this basic visceral level, that he should listen to Kusanagi. A lot of this is because if he has learned anything in the last twenty-five years of his life, it is that Nothing Good Comes From Not Listening To Kusanagi.</p><p>Or: AU wherein Mikoto accidentally gets rich and makes impulse purchases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. spoonful of sugar

 

When Mikoto's last living relative, who happens to be his estranged but wealthy aunt, finally leaves this world, she leaves behind a ridiculous sum of money to his name.

Mikoto has never really known what to do with money of his own. Kusanagi has always more or less headed that department and been pretty good at it too so Mikoto sort of doesn’t think much about it beyond following his very first instinct.

Unfortunately, his very first instinct happens to be spending his inheritance on a brand new Yamaha Super Ténéré motorbike.  
  
Well, part of his inheritance anyway.

For starters, there is  _a lot_  of it, more than he knows what to feasibly do with.

Kusanagi, when he has been brought back to consciousness with aid of figurative smelling salts after hearing about the motorbike (where shaking him vigorously for several minutes stood-in for smelling salts), suggests that he invest some of it and save the rest. Mikoto has no idea what he is saving for but suspects Kusanagi is mostly doing this to prevent Mikoto from making further whimsical purchases. 

The thing is that there really is  _a lot_  of money, and  _yes, okay,_  so Kusanagi has solid, valid points and a history of good financial sense even though, or especially since, they’ve never really had excessive funds to begin with between the both of them. Mikoto knows that he should probably listen to Kusanagi. He knows in his heart of hearts, on this basic visceral level, that he should listen to Kusanagi. A lot of this is because if he has learned anything in the last twenty-five years of his life, it is that Nothing Good Comes From Not Listening To Kusanagi.

But then, he happens to walk past a street downtown on a day that happens to be Kusanagi’s birthday. He has never been all that great with gifts but here, he knows that he is clearly in the right place at the right time because he sees a sign and knows that before he does the saving and the investing and the listening to Kusanagi, he has one final purchase to make.

 

*

 

“No,” says Kusanagi. He would sound aghast if he didn't also sound like he was close to another minor fainting spell for the second time this week. "This _isn’t_ happening.”

“Weird,” says Mikoto, tries to fight off this weird taste in the back of his throat, which feels oddly like disappointment. “I thought you’d like it?”

“Mikoto, I don't think you understand," Kusanagi tries to say calmly, but just sounds borderline hysterical. "You bought," he looks up at the two-storey building, which is actually quite quaint and well-kept, and it's bright-pink fluorescent sign by the window, "a bakery. A fucking  _bakery, Mikoto_?”

“Yeah. It was on sale. Came with a fully-equipped kitchen too.”

“You do realize," Kusanagi says, as if talking to a very small child, "to make use of this--this _bakery_ \--I now have to learn how to _bake_.”

“You made that pie that one time," Mikoto looks thoughtful. "I dunno, it was pretty badass.” 

Kusanagi looks as if he’s about to pinch the bridge of his nose or pull out Mikoto’s entire head of hair but is restraining himself from doing both these things with a mighty force of willpower.

“Okay,” he sighs, gathering himself, laughing a little, and maybe it’s a bit manic now, Mikoto’s not sure. “We can deal with this. I mean, I didn’t think you could outdo the motorbike but I have been wrong before.”

Mikoto is not really...upset? He just wishes that Kusanagi could understand the versatility of his birthday present. Kusanagi was generally all about versatility. And efficiency. And all those productive-sounding things. “It doesn’t have to be a bakery?" Mikoto suggests, fully aware he has zero inkling about what he is talking about but the previous owner seemed like a nice old lady and very enthusiastically told him all about how she had remodeled it from an old shop and whatever else it was before. Mikoto had mostly forgotten the rest of it. "It used to be a bakery, but it’s just,” Mikoto shrugs a shoulder, “commercial property or whatever. You can do with it whatever you like. You could rent it out, right? There’s two levels and all. Or, if you wanted to live downtown–”

“I am _not,_ " Kusanagi says crisply, "living on top of a bakery. I like the apartment just fine. Do _you_ want to live on top of a bakery?”

"Are you kicking me out because I bought you a bakery?” He figures that Kusanagi has every right to. Mikoto's not really paid rent for the past, well, he's lost count of how many months, if they're not counting sexual favours anyway. Actually, he doesn't think he's paid rent even before the sexual favours kicked in since he was out of a job way before that, and the favours wound up being bidirectional anyway, so that point was kind of moot. 

They wound up living together initially out of something like affordable convenience, what with staying in the same prefecture after going to the same schools their whole lives and Kusanagi finding a nearby college. What should have been unexpected but really, weirdly, wasn't at all, was the whole tumbling into friendship from growing up as neighbours, to becoming roommates and then, becoming whatever strange and nebulous entity they became where he occasionally found himself kissing Kusanagi and then doing a lot more than kissing Kusanagi and found out the hard way that all the girls who swooned at the mere sight of his best friend were not completely out of their minds. No one knows how Kusanagi continued to cook for him and fuss over him and generally do his regular Kusanagi-things where Mikoto was essentially his parasite without either of them questioning any of it. Most of the time, Mikoto felt that it would only be a matter of time before Kusanagi came to his senses and realized he was way too smart and way too hot to be wasting his life on the likes of Suoh Mikoto. Mikoto has, he thinks, largely been prepared for this. He wonders if today is the day. 

Apparently it is not because Kusanagi sighs and says, "No, I am not kicking you out because you bought me a bakery. I am just floored? As to how is this my life? You bought me a  _bakery_.” He runs a hand over his face. “It’s actually kind of-–” and because Mikoto knows him as well as he does, he knows that when Kusanagi groans, it's at himself for thinking it before saying it. “It's almost kind of-- _sweet,"_ and now he's cringing at himself for even using that word and Mikoto's trying not to grin. "Sweet in that really twisted Mikoto way of yours, anyway,” Kusanagi finishes.

"I was hoping you would like it,” Mikoto says, and feels some semblance of pride.

“I mean, I don’t think I will ever understand your version of grand romantic gestures but–never mind,” Kusanagi stops himself. “It is still _totally fucking ridiculous,_  do not get me wrong.”

“So you’re not mad.”

“I’m a little mad. You _could_ have asked. You _should_ have asked.”

"It was supposed to be a surprise?”

“Mikoto,” Kusanagi looks as if he is gong to drag his hands down his face, or alternatively, throttle someone, “ _rings_  are a surprise. Bakeries? Not a surprise.”

“Rings are boring, but if you really want–”

Kusanagi practically screeches, “ _No--_ that was. Not my point. _”_

"Besides, you’re weird and picky about jewelry. What if I picked one and you didn’t like it?" Mikoto might be smirking now but he swears that it's purely accidental. He doesn't mean to, at all.

“Listen to yourself,” Kusanagi sighs and sits down on the blasted front steps of his new bakery.

It’s been a long day and while Kusanagi is usually the more put-together of them, in every sense of the word, Mikoto thinks that here, in the early dusk, he strangely enough looks both older and younger than he is, flustered and a little disheveled, more than his usual bit of a mess. And it's unexpected, the warmth that spreads at the sight of him. It hits Mikoto in the oddest moments, like when he falls asleep reading a book or gets sticky-rice on his chin. It blindsides him, really, and leaves his fingertips aching and a little bit numb. 

“Look, I get that it maybe wasn't the best idea,” Mikoto says, before he can stop himself.

Kusanagi laughs, suddenly, like he can’t help himself and it's a rich sound. He shakes his head and gets back on his feet. “You bought me  _a bakery_ , that I am gonna learn how to _bake_ for and you’re gonna fucking help me and wear a frilly apron till the end of your days. It will go down in history as the most ridiculous birthday present. Now, come here.”

Mikoto meets him half-way with a hug that’s probably far too rough to even be called that but Kusanagi’s laughing into his hair, incredulous but also finally reaching the point where he is just massively entertained by the whole deal more than anything.

In turn, Mikoto just holds on to him. He tells himself every now and then that he'd survive it just fine, if Kusanagi just up and left, even though the fact that he hasn't left so far is _in itself_ probably  _something,_  if not a small wonder of the universe. Sure, he'd survive it, especially now that he can probably get his own digs and pay his own damned rent. He just doesn't want to have to is all. 

“Frilly apron,” Kusanagi repeats, with inflection. “There’s a shop nearby that sells them. They might still be open.”

“Fuck you,” Mikoto mumbles against his neck, but it comes out far more fond than it's supposed to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel that the universe likely owes Izumo an infinite amount of silly, happy AUs to make up for everything. Also, it doesn't matter how much you love a character, don't stay up till 4 a.m. writing him birthday-fic, kids. Nothing will make sense, honest.
> 
> There was also some nonsense about the bike which just didn't seem to fit in here and may or may not get added on as another part depending on how profoundly lazy I get.


	2. biker chic

 

 

“Wear a goddamned helmet,” Izumo says, as Mikoto zips his jacket up.  

“Come with?” Mikoto says, and Izumo supposes there’s a first time for everything.   
  
He also supposes he values his life but then there’s a silly part of him that’s morbidly curious about the whole ordeal.   
  
“I’m gonna regret this aren’t I? They are gonna be cleaning my insides from the roadside,” Izumo wonders as they’re standing beside the ridiculous-horsepowered monstrosity parked in front of the bakery, both of which happen to be products of Mikoto's sudden inheritance from some months ago.

“Get on drama queen," Mikoto rolls his eyes and hops on. "You always get to drive so let me have this.”  
  
“There is a reason for that,” Izumo explains but climbs on with some degree of caution, positioning himself behind Mikoto once his own helmet is secure. “The general pattern whenever I let you steer things, such as your life for example, is that they frequently end up going off a cliff.”  
  
Mikoto shrugs a shoulder and izumo can feel it below his chin.  “Metaphorical,” he says.  
  
“So far,” Izumo counters.  
  
Mikoto chuckles as he puts the key in the ignition. “Live a little,  Ojiisan.”  
  
Izumo sighs.  “Just keep my brains off the asphalt.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” 

 

*

 

They're barely seven minutes in and Izumo already has Regrets. 

It's not just that Mikoto drives _fast_ , like inhumanly--or at least _illegally--_ fast, but he also likes to pretend that traffic laws don't actually exist.

He hasn't run red lights yet but he's done nearly every other damned thing that has Izumo shrieking in his ear from here to next week. 

He squeezes in between traffic lanes and doesn't believe in signal lights and makes his turns too sharp and far too much like they are offhanded last-minute decisions.

He is already appearing be the kind of driver that Izumo would probably have gotten out of his own vehicle and throttled if he had met on the road.

This is some sort of twisted form of karma, he assures himself. Surely, he has sinned in a past life. Likely, several past lives.

Worse yet, he knows that Mikoto very much does not have a license. Not a real one anyhow. So he can't really begin to think about the idea of cops entering the picture without feeling a little lightheaded. (Come to think of it, he doesn't actually know when or how Mikoto actually _learned to ride_ this thing, feels somewhat ill if he overthinks it.  He'd asked casually once and gotten something along the lines of an ambiguous "Ah, just here and there," tossed in with a cryptic smile.)

The fact that he is entrusting his life in these hands knowingly makes it, well, difficult to say which one of the two of them wins the worst life choices here.

Once they get out of the city proper though and into the smaller country roads, it is, in fact, not all that terrible.

Sure, he's taking advantage of the empty road and zooming far past the speed limit if not going twice over. Izumo can feel his heart in his throat and the rumble of the bike all the way through to his fingertips which are very nearly blue with how hard his hands were gripping on to the fabric of Mikoto's jacket more than half the way here.

Somewhere along the way though, he adjusts his grip for a better, more comfortable hold. Soon, his arms are secured around Mikoto's waist.

The sky begins to darken, bands of orange and violet streaming overhead, and either he has become slowly desensitized towards the sheer panic at every bend of the road or Mikoto has actually slowed down somewhat. By some wonder of the universe, it genuinely approaches the point where the ride becomes comfortable, almost soothing.

When they finally do stop, it's for fuel. Izumo buys two bottles of water and a packet of intensely colourful crackers while Mikoto gets the gas.

They lean against the bike and watch the vestiges of the sun disappear, washing down the snack with their waters.

Izumo sighs. "Should've packed something from home."

"We were going for a ride, not a picnic."

"Next time, we can kill two birds," Izumo muses. "Anything I make will be better than these hellish things. Can't taste anything except salt. Besides, you bought me a bakery so 'bout time we put it to real use."

The aforementioned bakery had mostly been sitting there so far since its purchase, largely untouched. Izumo had spent some time having it cleaned and, slowly, their apartment was accumulating boxes of baking trays and muffin pans and he'd been bookmarking recipes as he'd encountered them. He worked part-time as it was and the transition into entrepreneurship was easier said than done. Then, there was the matter of finding staff. He'd spoken to an old friend from the neighbourhood whose family was distantly involved in fruit agriculture and supply and another acquaintance who'd once run a deli and restaurant. He'd meant to pick their brains about it all one of these days. It would take time but, slowly, he could see it unfold.

"Next time huh?" Mikoto cuts into his reverie, voice rich with amusement. "So you're game."

"Well," Izumo considers, shakes off the thoughts of fruit and flour and menus and management and lets himself steep in this instead, the sky overhead, the road before him, and the warmth radiating from beside him. "You miraculously have not gotten us killed yet so I suppose I can continue making poor life choices a little longer."

Mikoto scoffs, scrunches up his water bottle. "Trust me to get you back home then?"

Without warning, Izumo turns to him and in a fluid movement, he pulls Mikoto close by the neck and kisses him, tastes in it the night and road and the stars and all.

Izumo half wants to laugh; it's hardly the first time he's searched his mind and failed to come up with a single thing he wouldn't let this boy get away with. As ill-advised as it may or may not be, he finds that he wants to hold on to this feeling, that it very likely keeps his heart beating.

He breathes in deep and Mikoto's arms tighten around his waist now, impossibly warm and dizzying even after all this time and it's something he wonders if he'll ever quite become even close to desensitized towards. Doubts it, really.

"Yeah," he says at last, pulling away, just fractionally. "Let's go home."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't actually know if this is gonna become an on-going thing...but unrelatedly, halsey & angus stone have got some great tracks to drive to.


	3. honey lavender

 

Neither of them are morning people, not strictly speaking anyway, but of the two of them, Mikoto is probably as polar opposite of morning person as one can possibly be.

When Izumo had first discovered this many years ago, he had accused him of being part vampire, asked whether the sunlight could make him shrivel up and die or something.

To be fair, Izumo generally appreciates if he can get somewhere between six to eight hours of his own beauty rest and has been known to threaten bodily harm in the past when woken up at three a.m. by inopportune phone calls. 

Historically, he has had his fair share of these (”So, uh, your car crashed itself.” “There is a small fire in my kitchen.” “Wait, how the hell do I get there again? You said it was only a few blocks south of Shinjuku Station?”) but then that’s sort of also an occupational hazard of befriending then pseudo-dating then likely pseudo-common-law-marrying, or whatever the hell it was they were doing these days, one Suoh Mikoto.

The point of all of this is that, Izumo generally prides himself on being a functional adult even in the face of all the redheaded obstacles life has thrown his way.

That said, it takes a good hour and half for Izumo to officially get out of bed this fine morning and it’s not even that he's missed his alarm. No, just more redheaded obstacles barricading his way to functionality.

“We need to–”, he says, when his mouth finally has the opportunity to speak, “–take care–” with a gasp, “–of your–” a yelp now, “– _oral fixation!_ ”

“That not what you’re doing?” Mikoto hums, trailing a hand down to a spot by his hip. “Besides you were saying something totally different last night.”

Izumo groans, but not emphatically enough, wouldn’t really care to dissuade him if not for the hour.

As prickly as Mikoto can be, there are mornings, particularly when it gets colder, where he becomes something of an octopus.

(Izumo’s deep, dark, guilty, _guilty_ secret is that he thrives on it a little, would do whatever he could to keep Mikoto warm and close. Yes, fine, so his sleep-addled brain makes him more of a goddamned cheeseball than usual. At least he owns up to it.)

It takes like every particle of willpower in his body and then some to shove Mikoto’s head away. Even then, he can’t help but swear out loud because he knows very well that he _could_ actually tell the world outside to _fuck right off_ and stay in bed for the rest of the day with Mikoto pressing him into the mattress, needing little more leverage than the heat of his mouth, drawing out terrible, filthy things out of his own mouth. Forget _rest of the day_ , he could go on like this for the rest of his poorly planned life if he’s not careful.)

“Alright, for real.” He exhales, halfheartedly. “I have a _meeting_ ,”

“Who you meeting?” Mikoto asks, not even trying to stave off the disappointment in his voice.

“Rikio,” Izumo says, pulling on a the shirt one of them had cast away to a corner the night before. The fall weather is hovering above and around them. Another few weeks and they’ll need the heat on. Another few months actually, if it’s up to Mikoto.

“The Kamamoto boy?”

“Yeah. They work with supplies and I need to talk shop, literally. Also have a list of shit you can help with, considering you got me into this mess to begin with.”

“On a scale from one to ten, how important–”

“Eleven,” Izumo says, kissing the top of his head before launching himself out of bed. “Would invite you to shower but you’re probably not actually getting up for another fifty years, so.”

“That all depends. What’s in it for me?”

“Me. Naked.” He thinks on it a moment longer. “Also, breakfast that might even be warm, if you’re quick, and–”

Mikoto doesn’t let him finish. “ _Deal_.”

 

*

 

The rest of the week goes something like this: 

In between his courses and working at the lab, Izumo teaches himself about entrepreneurship. He knows folks in the neighbourhood and from his younger years who went into start-ups and others who latched on to their families’ small business so the business plan part of it picks up pace before he knows it. Rikio is helpful in his own way, tells him what some of the big chains have been doing, gives him books and websites and gets him in touch with accountants and managers who have done this sort of work before. 

He’s known Rikio for a while which means that Rikio has known him too and when Rikio asks him finally a) what even brought this upon in the first place and b) assuming Izumo doesn’t already know the appropriate channels for borrowers and business loans, he could offer some information on that, Izumo just laughs nervously and waves a hand. He still doesn’t know the proper way of saying that his boyfriend sort of kind of came upon a sudden inheritance and blew a huge chunk of it on a bakery as a birthday present. He doesn’t know if he ever will.

Kusanagi also accidentally runs into two of Rikio’s locals who hang around the Kamamoto’s corner grocery and have hands full of soda bottles and candy wrappers. 

High school aged brats who would be better off with some sort of part-time work keeping them out of trouble, Rikio tells him with a laugh. 

One of them has bright red hair and horrifically scraped knees but proudly wears them like battle wounds, grins at him with all his teeth. The other wears glasses and a perfected scowl that’s old beyond his years.

The picture is all wrong in some ways but something strikes Izumo about them all the same, some kind of fond nostalgia. 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Izumo says, thinks, he’ll have to remember when this thing finally becomes a reality rather than lines and numbers on paper.

 

*

 

“Haven’t seen you all week,” is the first part of Mikoto’s muttered greeting when Izumo finally comes home and sits on the couch where Mikoto’s sprawled. The second part nearly makes him jump, until he settles into the touch, Mikoto’s fingers under his shirt, splaying over his rib cage.

“Yes you have,” Izumo yawns. “I live here.”

“You’re gone before I’m up and you’re back late.”

“Don’t worry,” Izumo says, wry, “I’m not cheating on you.”

Mikoto groans, like he’s just heard a terribly unfunny joke, which Izumo supposes it is and tries not to laugh. “Right. Forget I said anything.”

“There’s a lot of work to be done,” he sighs, pulling off his coat and settling against Mikoto’s frame. 

“Or you could stop working so hard and make the rest of the world feel shitty.”

Izumo laughs out loud at that. “Everyone but you apparently.”

“Wasn’t gone even nearly long enough for you to miss me this much,” Izumo mumbles, exhausted but content, relaxing into the hold when Mikoto tugs him down horizontal and close, buries his face against the side of his, nose to cheek, mouth to jawline. He breathes in and in and then holds it there a moment.

“Who said anything about missing anyone?” Still, he doesn’t make an effort to move one bit.

“You might need to hold off on getting frisky,” Izumo says, almost a little regretful in spite of himself, “unless you’re fine with me snoring midway.” 

“It’s fine,” comes the rumble of Mikoto’s voice close to his ear. “Any fancy meetings on your calendar for tomorrow?”

Izumo shifts, brings them face to face, kisses him quick before he says, "Just this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone: but mirai will this AU be anything other than disgustingly shameless fluff?  
> me: no probably not :(
> 
> but yes, other characters finally! also this chapter was written for (ie. motivated by) mikoto/izumo week - day seven: alternate universe!


	4. fraises à la crème

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing he bakes in the bakery Mikoto bought him is, fittingly enough, a birthday cake for Mikoto.

The first thing he bakes in the bakery Mikoto bought him is, fittingly enough, a birthday cake for Mikoto.

It's taken from April to August for them to get the essentials together although there’s still ways to go before Izumo can even consider an official inauguration. 

There are walls to be painted and the small seating area still needs to be completed. There’s furniture to be ordered and decor to be organized. He's been flipping through magazines during breakfast and browsing online catalogs on transit. He's also been hoarding recipes but that's been happening since he was a kid. He may never have thought up the idea so concretely but he thinks part if it must have been written all over him in some sort of invisible ink. Trust Mikoto to turn on the ultraviolet lights. It hurts him to own up to it but, sometimes, the boy is in fact _on point_ to an uncanny degree, even if inadvertently so.

The kitchen, for the most part, has miraculously been coming together. He still needs to look for a decent espresso machine and milk frother but the baking essentials are more or less in order. As for seating, they still only have a few mismatched chairs and a coffeetable on the floor that the previous owner left behind.

The small, simple strawberries and cream shortcake he’s bringing to life is an old go-to recipe. It's the same thing he’s made every year for years now on this day.

The first time had earned him a red raised brow and “What the hell?”

To which, Izumo had rolled his eyes and told the sullen brat to “Just try it okay.”

Mikoto has never actually openly acknowledged his fondness for the flavour but he’s devoured strawberry-everything for as long as Izumo has known him and this was no different.

They had tried something different the year they finally got together. (It's statement that in itself sounds like an awful joke to Izumo now, because, in a way, when had they ever not been together? They had always come as a matching set, much to the chagrin of most of Izumo's exes, but that is a whole other story for a whole other day.) That fateful year, Izumo had taken Mikoto out for his birthday in some misguided effort to make it _special_. It was nothing fancy -- they couldn’t have afforded fancy, not then by a longshot -- but a corner restaurant which was known for its ramen and specialty strawberry desserts.

Mikoto had never been much of a picky eater but, afterwards, when Izumo had asked him how he liked it, he had said, “S'good. Yours is better.” 

They haven’t strayed from tradition since.

When he's done, he smirks to himself, lighting five candles on the cake.

"Get it? Because you’re actually _five_?" Izumo  bringing it out and setting it down on the rickety old table. 

Mikoto is behind him and he doesnt wait for Izumo to move or make a move to sit. He's got his arms around Izumo and practically lunges them both forward towards the small flickering flames, blowing out the candles over Izumo’s shoulder.

"You planning on setting my hair on fire?" Izumo nearly screeches, then sighs and composes himself as he finds Mikoto, still holding on to him, genuinely enjoying himself at Izumo's own expense. What else was new in his life anyway. "Anyway, did you make your wish?"

Mikoto huffs a breath, something of a laugh, wry but still warm, as he burrows his nose against the side of Izumo's neck and says, "The hell else would I even want?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh this was supposed to double as pseudo-mikoto-bday-fic but late by 42 minutes. no i haven't forgotten about this fic. izumo's seven evil exes (okay, not seven and not evil) still have to make an appearance!!! :)


End file.
